Dimension Of Horror Part 9

Staring at J with unconcealed disbelief, the doctor opened the door. "A visitor, Mrs. Smythe-Evans," he called with a false cheerfulness.

"Bring him in." Her voice sounded tired.

In the doorway J said, "I hope I'm not intruding. If you'd like to rest . . . "

"I can't sleep. I might as well talk." She was lying in bed, propped up on a pillow, wearing a white hospital gown.

J pulled up the room's one chair and sat down by her bedside.

"I have things to do," Ferguson said apologetically. "If you need me, there's a b.u.t.ton . . . " He backed out, bowing slightly, and closed the door.

When he was gone, Zoe said, "I don't like that man. He thinks all you have to do is take a pill and everything will be all right."

"A common superst.i.tion of his profession," J replied smoothly.

"Tell me about the fire. Were there many casualties?"

"Twenty-seven dead, by the latest count. I don't remember how many were hurt."

"Twenty-seven dead." She lay back and closed her eyes.

"I think I must be a very selfish woman. That number doesn't seem to mean anything to me."

"No more selfish than the rest of us, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, though perhaps a bit more honest."

"I don't think about all those poor people who got burned up. I don't even think very much about my husband, though he was a good man. I know to some he was a clown, a figure of fun, but he was kind most of the time, and trustworthy and reliable. Reliability is a vastly underrated virtue, I've come to believe. It's like a good English suit; a man can wear it for a long time and it still looks well on him. Yet, though I've honestly tried, I can't seem to burst into hysterical tears over Reginald. Is there something wrong with me?"

"No."

"I'm going to shock you yet. My children. Mrs. Kelly. Are they among the twenty-seven?"

J hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Smythe-Evans."

"You're sure?"

"They were . . . rather badly burned, but my men were able to identify them . . . by their teeth. Your family dentist came down from Norwich with their X-rays. He was very helpful." J was choosing his words with care.

"You see how selfish I am? I don't even think about them, poor lads." Her voice began to quaver and she paused before going on. "Except for d.i.c.kie. d.i.c.kie wasn't like the others."

J thought she was indeed going to burst into tears, but she gave herself a little shake and opened her eyes. "You see? Selfish to the core! Reginald often accused me of that, of thinking only of myself, of loving only myself. It's a pity he can't be here to enjoy being right again, as he usually was."

J said gently, "To be, as you put it, selfish may be an advantage in a situation like this. You can look at things calmly, plan for the future."

"Future? What future?" she demanded. "I have no future."

"It may not appear so, but . . . "

"I haven't worked at a regular job since my marriage. I have, unfortunately, been a completely faithful wife and mother, and so haven't got a lover waiting in the wings to spirit me away to a new and better life. Oh, I'm sure I won't starve. There will still be plenty of money in the Smythe-Evans coffers, even after inheritance taxes. But a future? That's too grand a word to describe the years I'll be spending in that ugly house in Norwich, listening to echoes and was.h.i.+ng dishes for myself, discreetly and with dignity turning into a hag."

"Surely it's not as bad as all that."

"No?" She sat upright and glared at him. "Can you think of anyone on G.o.d's green earth who would offer decent employment to a woman of my age and inexperience?"

"Yes I can."

"Who?" Her tone was almost contemptuous.

"Me, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, on behalf of Her Majesty's Special Services, Department MI6A."

"You've finally taken leave of your senses, my dear J," Lord Leighton said, more amused than angry.

Dr. Ferguson, not so good-humoredly, agreed. "That's a layman's diagnosis, but I cannot help but concur."

J, Leighton and Ferguson were in what remained of Ferguson's office. Ferguson sat behind his desk, J sat near the gaping hole in the wall, and Leighton sat near the badly dented filing cabinet, which had been returned to its place against the back of the room. The cabinet was so bent that J suspected it could not be opened without a crowbar.

Leighton continued with agitation, "Of all of us, you've always been the most sticky about security clearances and all that rot, but now . . . "

J smiled. "Mrs. Smythe-Evans is no security risk. I'm certain of that. You see, many years ago I took the liberty of starting a security check on the lady when it appeared that Blade might marry her. He would have had to violate the Official Secrets Act to do it, of course, but he was a hot-blooded lad in those days, if you'll recall. He broke off with her before the investigation was complete, but we've kept track of her ever since. She has never in her life joined any of the wrong organizations, signed any of the wrong pet.i.tions, or had any of the wrong friends. Moreover, if she was an agent, even a sleeper under deep cover, we would find her somewhere closer to the seats of power, not married to a C.P.A. in a place like Norwich. I've reactivated her security check, and we should have an official clearance within a fortnight."

Ferguson said stiffly, "Wait until then to swear her in."

J chuckled. "It seems you were not listening, Ferguson old boy. I said I've already sworn her in."

"You can revoke . . . " began the little fat man.

"I've made up my mind, gentlemen. I revoke nothing. If she doesn't work out, I take full responsibility. Really, since the Katerina Shumilova affair I've become more than somewhat skeptical about the effectiveness of our security precautions. We would probably get a higher percentage of loyal, patriotic Britons if we chucked the whole b.l.o.o.d.y screening process and recruited our people by lottery from the local Salvation Army breadline." J took out his omnipresent pipe and began filling it with an air of satisfaction.

Lord Leighton said gloomily, "What's done is done, I suppose, but I can't see the good of it."

J answered, tamping down his tobacco, "The simple truth is that we need her. She was able to get a reaction out of Richard . . . "

"A violent reaction," put in Ferguson.

"But a reaction nonetheless," J said. "As things stand, literally everything depends on Richard Blade's recovery." He paused to let this sink in. "Therefore I think we must work closely with her, hiding nothing from her, granting her an unlimited need-to-know. How could we do that if she wasn't one of us, eh?" He lit up, exhaling little puffs of blue-white smoke. The air was filled with the strong but not unpleasant aroma of crude sailor's rough-cut tobacco.

"I see there's no arguing with you," Ferguson sighed. "I'll simply have to get used to a strange woman wandering about, without training or apt.i.tude, meddling here, meddling there, asking all manner of absurd questions."

"Not at all, not at all," J a.s.sured him. "Mrs. Smythe-Evans will be leaving your domain tonight. So will I."

"But your friend Blade . . . " said Ferguson, surprised.

"Richard Blade will be going with us," J said quietly.

"See here, I . . . " Ferguson sputtered. "My patient . . . "

"Your patient must be removed from the neighborhood of the KALI computer," J said. "Surely you see that. From what little we know about this Ngaa creature, it will probably follow Richard when he leaves, and we must get the Ngaa away from that computer if we hope to prevent it recharging itself at intervals, growing larger and stronger and more dangerous. The Ngaa is no longer a playful nuisance, gentlemen. It has murdered twenty-seven people in a particularly disagreeable fas.h.i.+on. It could kill again at any moment, and we have no defense against it. It could be in this room, listening to every word we say. It could be reading our minds. Yes, I think it likely the creature reads minds. I think it can also project images, make us see things that aren't there. No, doctor, we must s.n.a.t.c.h Richard Blade away from here, far away. Even Scotland may be too close."

"I gather I am being taken off the case," Ferguson said with ill-concealed resentment.

"At least for the time being," J replied.

"And who will take my place?"

I said thoughtfully, "There is only one other man at all familiar with the ways of the Ngaa. Dr. Saxton Colby."

Ferguson sniffed. "Colby? I understood he'd been drummed out of the corps for conduct unbecoming to a savior."

Lord Leighton chuckled, but J said, "Quite so, old chap, but all the same he's the man we need. He's had more experience with the Ngaa than any of us, and he's had time to think about it. I daresay he's come to some interesting conclusions."

Lord Leighton put in, "Hmm, whatever happened to old Colby? Where did he go?"

"I've made an educated guess, as it were," J answered, then he pointed to the telephone on Ferguson's desk with his pipestem. "If I'm right, that phone should ring any time now."

"What nonsense," Ferguson snorted. "That phone won't . . . "

The phone rang.

Ferguson s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. "Dr. Ferguson speaking! You want to talk to J?"

He handed over the receiver, muttering softly.

"This is J speaking. You remember me?"

A familiar voice sounded in J's ear, somewhat distorted but clearly recognizable. "Of course I do, sir. Did you have your agents track me down?"

"No, I didn't, Dr. Colby," said J, amused. "Ma Bell-as the Americans call her-found you for me. I thought you'd moved to Berkeley, California because of your daughter, you see. I had our telephone operator call Berkeley information, and there was your name, no doubt, in the Berkeley telephone book."

Colby had a deep, well-modulated voice that his patients must have found soothing. "So you know about my daughter?"

"Dr. MacMurdo told me the whole story."

"Then you're probably doubly glad to be rid of me, knowing I'm not only depraved but a raving lunatic." Beneath Colby's bantering was an undertone of deep, long-nurtured resentment.

"Not at all, doctor. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, you're completely vindicated."

There was a long silence, then Colby said, "Isn't it a bit late? I've built up a new life for myself here. I couldn't come back to England and work for you again even if I wanted to, and I'm not sure I do. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, sir, but . . . " He broke off. He had sounded ungrateful indeed. J thought, I can't blame him, of course. I would have felt the same way. When Colby continued, it was with a new tone, a tone of suspicion and a dawning apprehension. "This long distance call must be costing you a pretty penny, sir. Perhaps you'd better come to the point. Why did you phone me?"

"I've seen your daughter."

"Jane?"

"Yes."

"In London?"

"Yes."

"My daughter is dead, sir. She died a long time ago, here in Berkeley." The apprehension was open now, a genuine fear.

"I know. Nevertheless I saw her."

"I've studied this matter for many years, sir. Once I thought, as you do, that I saw her, but now I've become convinced that what I thought was her was something else, something pretending to be her, not a ghost, but something far more dangerous."

"I quite agree," J said.

Suddenly, impulsively, Dr. Colby burst out, "I've changed my mind. I am coming to London. I must come!"

"That will not be necessary, Doctor Colby. We would like to come to you, bringing-ah-Jane with us. We will need a room for-er-someone, a room with a lock on the door and, if possible, a fence around the building."

"I understand perfectly. As it happens, sir, I am still plying my trade. I have a small private sanitarium here in the Berkeley hills, in an old mansion that once functioned as an exclusive ballet school. We have locks on the doors and a high wire-mesh fence. No one has ever left without my permission."

"Excellent. We'll hop a jet and see you in a few hours."

"I'll meet you at the airport."

"That will be most kind of you, doctor. And could you bring an ambulance with facilities for restraining an-er-unruly patient?"

"We have such a vehicle."

"I'll have Copra House phone you our ETA. Goodbye, Colby, and thank you for forgiving us."

A moment later J was on the line to Copra House, arranging for the flight.

This done, he turned to Ferguson and said, "I want Richard Blade unconscious until we are in the air, and I mean out cold. Do you understand? If he got rough on the way to the airport, I'm not certain we could handle him."

The fat man nodded. "He can sleep his way across the Atlantic, if you wish."

"Make that all the way to California, if you can do it without harming him," said J.

"He'll be all right." Ferguson lurched to his feet and waddled toward the door. "Do you want some tranquilizer for Mrs. Smythe-Evans?"

J stood up with a grunt. "Zoe doesn't like drugs."

Ferguson paused in the doorway to pa.s.s a wink to Lord Leighton. "Well, well," chortled the psychiatrist. "So it's Zoe already, is it? The old rascal hasn't wasted much time getting on a first-name basis, has he?"

After accepting the bribe, the burly orderly continued to hover around behind her with a worried frown on his face.

"I'll be all right," Zoe a.s.sured him. "If anything happens I'll call for you."

Reluctantly the orderly went out into the hall and left her alone with Richard.

She approached the foot of the bed, barefoot, clad in a hospital gown, with her purse clutched in her hands.

Richard was asleep, breathing gently, lying on his side. He was free to toss and turn if he wanted to; the orderly had told her Ferguson had ordered the restraining straps removed. They were useless against Blade's appalling strength. All the orderlies and nurses were now armed with tranquilizer pistols. Drugs, it seemed, were the only things that could stop Blade when one of the fits came on.

She halted, gazing uncertainly across the expanse of rumpled blankets at the half-hidden, square-cut face she knew so well. She had watched him sleep many times, long ago.

As she looked at him, year after year fell away into unreality. She had had a husband. Or had she? She had had children. Or had she? She had had-and still had-a home, a comfortable if tasteless cottage in a small English town. Even that had become vague in her mind, dreamlike. Does one remember what one does while sitting in a waiting room? Does one remember the things one does to kill time?